


the enchanted mistletoe

by shyberius



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Special, Draco Malfoy - Freeform, Drarry, Fluff, Fluffy, Harry Potter - Freeform, Kissing, M/M, Mistlotoe, Oneshot, Romance, kiss, romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-08-30 00:14:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16754173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shyberius/pseuds/shyberius
Summary: Harry gets the wrong idea about what you're supposed to actually do under the mistletoe.Or: A very fluffy Drarry Christmas special, hand-crafted by yours truly.





	the enchanted mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> Seasons greetings! Enjoy this hand-crafted, specially fluffy Drarry Christmas special, just for you. Three days before Christmas itself, because I have no concept of time.

Apparently the Hogwarts houses were speaking different languages.

It wasn’t as if they couldn’t understand each other - after all, they spoke the Queen’s English like everyone else in the bloody school. It was just that sometimes (to Harry, at least), certain words took on totally different meanings depending on which house you were in. Call it slang; call it cultural difference; either way, Harry was confused.

Let’s start from the beginning.

The dictionary definition of mistletoe (which Harry absolutely did not take the pains to look up in the Library) was this: ‘a leathery-leaved parasitic plant which grows on apple, oak, and other broadleaf trees and bears white glutinous berries in winter’. The words of ‘Common Festive Plants: A Definitive Guide’, mind, because Harry was no Herbology expert.

The Gryffindor definition of mistletoe (now these were _Harry’s_ words) stated it as a ‘plant under which two people must duel until the loser is unconscious’. It happened every year: any two unlucky people who found themselves under the mistletoe would have to fight each other. It was the Tradition. A tradition that had waned since the year Fred and George cursed a sprig of mistletoe to follow Cormac McClaggen around 24/7, but a tradition all the same.

Apparently, although Harry was yet to discover this, not all houses viewed the mistletoe as such. Which was a shame, really, because the uncertainty around who’d get in a fight next was entertaining. And Harry kind of thrived off chaos.

The Hufflepuff definition, perhaps unsurprisingly, operated a bit like a manic Secret Santa: any two people who found themselves together under the mistletoe had to buy each other a gift. This resulted in a lot less broken noses and a lot more Honeydukes hampers (yes. They were a thing. And they were heavenly).

Ravenclaws, on the other hand, didn’t care too much for superstition. But those few who wanted to have some fun (namely, first years) sometimes told each other a truth about the other person, which could end badly or wonderfully, dependent on a number of variables.

And Slytherins? Who knew what they used the mistletoe for. If nothing else, the deep green leaves and shining white berries would complete their common room aesthetic.

Anyway, Harry was blissfully unaware of any of this when he stepped down into the Slytherin common room on the last night of term. He didn’t even know why he was here, only Ron had said that it would be ‘a right laugh’. Seven years, Ron had argued, and they hadn’t tried to crash a Slytherin party once.

The velvet upholstered chair, the floating firewhisky glasses twinkling in the dim light, the spiky holly adorning the walls...mistletoe really did complete Slytherin’s aesthetic. Clumps of it were artfully hung in the doorways and over the fireplace.

Not that Harry noticed. Or cared.

At least, soon he’d be too drunk to care, which was the general aim of a Christmas party. At least, he’d be too drunk to be searching for that slicked-back blond head in the crowd of similarly aesthetic Slytherin twats.

This whole place was full of aesthetic Slytherin twats.

Ron tried to grab a drink mid-air, but the drink swerved smartly out of his reach. “Hey,” he flipped the drink off, as if it had conscious feelings. “Getting pissed is an inter-house activity. Merry bloody Christmas.”

Harry was still trying to cling to some semblance of ‘cool and completely not a mess’, so he ignored Ron and walked further down into the party, assuming Ron would follow suit. It was like a deep green, pureblood wonderland. A faerie band were setting up their instruments in the corner (though no instruments Harry had ever seen before), a chocolate waterfall dominated the far wall (think Niagra, then think again), and there was even a sectioned off area dedicated to drunk duelling (difficult to describe with Harry’s narrow magical vocabulary). And Harry was pretty sure he and Ron weren’t the only non-Slytherins to have snuck in, judging that the drunk duelling had to be down to a portion of his house.

He tried accio on one of the drinks. Sure enough, a glass floated into his hand, and he downed the contents in one go, closing his eyes as his chest filled up with fiery heat.

Everything was blissful. In that moment, with faded music floating into his ears and no one to disturb him, Harry was actually starting not to regret this party.

Then: “Have you heard about the bewitched mistletoe, Potter?”

That voice: Harry recognised it from somewhere, and he didn’t like it. It was shrill and sour.

He turned to face the speaker. “Pansy. Hi.”

Pansy Parkinson didn’t seem to care that Harry wasn’t supposed to be here. If anything, she look quite pleased, if that upturned expression counted as pleased. “Well, have you?”

“Er,” said Harry dumbly. Then he gathered up his words and started again. “I haven’t.”

“Someone’s put a powerful enchantment on the mistletoe,” she said, her head high, assuming that Harry wanted to hear all about it. (He didn’t. He wanted to be left alone, like everyone else in eight year who was only here for a last laugh and a handful of NEWTs.)

“Who?” Harry asked, despite himself.

“Daphne Greengrass,” she replied, smug. “She’d _really_ good at divination. The spell makes the mistletoe only go above two people who are destined to be together.”

Suddenly a pale blonde head appeared beside Pansy, but not, to Harry’s dismay, the pale blonde head he had been expecting. “It’s like mistletoe matchmaking,” said Daphne, her voice tinged with pride. “But it’s also so that I can humiliate my boyfriend for cheating on me.”

Harry, taken aback, wasn’t sure whether there was a right or a wrong way to respond. Or why they were telling him this. “So, why…”

“Oh, we just thought you should know.” Pansy giggled, twirling her sparkling hair between her fingers. “We heard that Gryffindors had...different ideas of how mistletoe works.”

“You’re actually supposed to kiss under it,” added Daphne helpfully.

This was a lot of information to take on board at once. Harry simply nodded, and summoned another drink into his hand.

“Well, see you round, Harry,” was Pansy’s parting wisdom, and the two girls flounced off in a mess of skirts.

Harry distinctly suspected that they hadn’t told him all that out of the goodness of their hearts; that they must have ulterior motives. Which, he guessed as he sipped his second drink, he’d find out soon enough.

No sooner has his peace been restored to him than it was broken again, this time by a different pale blond. The one he’d been hoping to see, but wouldn’t admit it if his life and the fate of the wizarding world depended on it.

Malfoy never began their conversation with a customary greeting. Instead, it went something like this: “Crashing the party? The things you do for me, Potter. I really am flattered.”

Harry bit back an unpleasant remark and simply said, “I’m here because Ron told me to be.”

Malfoy tutted with disapproval. “You really must keep your Weasley on a tighter leash.”

“And you really must get a sense of humour that doesn’t revolve around condescension.”

“Condescension!” Malfoy looked delighted to be provoked. “That’s a big word, Potter. Are you sure you don’t need a lie down after using that?”

Harry scowled. “Why are we even talking?”

“I could ask the same about your general presence here, but no. Out of the charity of my heart, I’ll let you stay.” As if it were Malfoy who had the entire castle at his beck and call.

(On further reflection, he probably did.)

“Maybe if we both avoid each other instead,” Harry said pragmatically, “we’d both have a good night and a very merry Christmas.”

“Maybe…” Suddenly the suave confidence that had been all over Malfoy a second ago vanished, to be replaced by an expression Harry had never seen on him before. It was an incongruous combination of confusion and anger, and it didn’t suit the lines on Malfoy’s face. It was like a cloak that didn’t fit.

“You alright?” Harry asked. Then he noticed that Malfoy wasn’t looking at him anymore, but at a spot just above him. At something hovering in the air.

Harry followed his gaze to find the familiar tear-shaped leaves and white berries dangling above their heads. He took an involuntary step back. Pansy’s smug voice rang in his ears. _Have you heard about the bewitched mistletoe, Potter?_

“PANSY!” Malfoy barked, not taking his eyes off the mistletoe.

In a flash, Pansy appeared beside both of them.

Malfoy’s voice was practically acid. “If this is your idea of some little joke - “

But Pansy, instead of her usual pompous demeanour, was as dumbfounded as them. “It’s not - it was Daphne who cast the spell, I - “

“Get rid of it.” Snapped Malfoy. You could have poured water over him, thought Harry, and it would have turned to ice on contact. “I don’t care who did it, just get rid of it now.”

“ _Incendio_ ,” Muttered Pansy, and the mistletoe burst into a silent shower of flames, burning out until it was nothing more than a handful of ashes, wandering to the ground and settling on both Harry and Draco’s shoes like snow.

With that, it was just the two of them again, with a stony silence to boot.

Until: “Well? What do you make of it?”

The voice belonged to Malfoy. Who, it seemed, was eyeing Harry in a subtle display of uncharacteristic curiosity. Funny, thought Harry: Draco was usually so indifferent to everything, only now, after his eighteen years on this earth, to be ruffled by a ‘leathery-leaved parasitic plant’.

“It’s a prank.” Harry suggested hopefully.

“Really,” said Draco disdainfully. Then, with a sudden resolve, “Follow me.”

Harry’s legs, though they didn’t feel attached to his own free will, carried him after Draco, weaving through the throngs of partygoers, past the faerie band, the chocolate waterfall, and the chaos in the corner that they called drunk duelling. This led the two of them to a secluded spot just round the corner - one of the many clandestine spaces in the Slytherin Tower - underneath an arch-shaped window. Thin moonlight gently traced its fingers over Draco’s face.

“What are we - “

Draco lifted a finger to his lips. His voice, when he spoke, was so quiet is almost didn’t exist. “Greengrass really is good at divination, you know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, it would be an _elaborate_ prank if it was one. And Daphne’s lazy. She wouldn’t go to such lengths if the enchantment weren’t real.”

“Are you saying - “

“ - That it wasn’t - “

“ - a prank?”

They stood frozen, in silence. The truth - or, at least, what they secretly hoped was the truth - sunk onto their shoulders. The moon - eternal, the rhythm of time - laughed.

The last thing Harry said before Draco kissed him was, “I thought we were supposed to duel under the mistletoe”, and the last thing Draco said before he silenced him with his lips was, “That’s not how it works, you idiot”, only the word _idiot_ came out as more a term of endearment. Such was their nature, that they were always bickering, even when they were literally mouth-to-mouth. They’d laugh about that one day.

Tonight, though, they were kissing. And Harry wondered, in between kisses, whether the Hogwarts houses really were speaking different languages after all.

Whether he and Draco had been speaking the same language all along.

Whether it even mattered.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! Please let me know what you'd like to see more of.
> 
> It only remains for me to say, in true Ron-Weasley-style: Merry bloody Christmas.


End file.
